


A Talk with God

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:42:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: Hi, how about a story where Machine reaches out to Shaw. Because Machine struggles to understand feelings and she doesn't understand the concept of being physical (since she is all about algorithms, and logic and purpose), so she contacts Shaw and asks questions, how does shaw deal with it, how does she understand, and eventually Machine asks Shaw if the fact that Machine singled out Root,would rather save her than someone else, would go through some unnecessary complications so Root would be happy, is that what love is? And Shaw would be strucked by that way of thinking. Because, well because, Shaw does the same things as machine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Talk with God

It's a cold, ugly Friday morning in Manhattan, with smoggy gray skies and the promise of rain whispering through a sticky-hot wind. Shaw walks, head down and hands stuffed deep into her jacket pockets, all the while people bump and check into her shoulders with each step. The farther she continues through the city, the more heated she becomes.

She thinks of the station, well, the people at the station. How beating in one of these unfortunate John's skulls would send her to the police station. And, if her luck was as shitty as always, would also send her to someone not Reese or Fusco, getting her entire rag tag team of misfits situated in the nearest electric chair. No, not her ideal Friday morning.

So, as the shoving and smacking continues, she focuses in harder and harder on their faces, searing it into her mind that she of all people will not be their downfall.  _Leave it to Lionel_ , she huffs with dry humor.  _Not me_. Crossing the street, Shaw approaches a rusted, graffiti ridden, and gum-soiled pay phone.

It rings.

* * *

 

Instantly, she goes on alert, looking both ways before shoving her way towards it. Ignoring the indignant muttering from other pedestrians, Shaw wraps a hand around its center and pulls. For a few moments, it only rings in her ear. She feels moronic all of a sudden, seeing as she is standing at one of the worst phone booths in the city, answering a call that was nothing at all. With a sigh, she begins to take it from her ear.

S _ierra_

H _otel_

A _lfa_

W _hiskey_

Shaw freezes, clutching they pay phone tightly in her hand, pupils dilating slightly.

_The Machine._

For a minute, she is silent, waiting. There is a tritone, and it starts again.

S _ierra_

H _otel_

A _lfa_

W _hiskey_

The voice changes between an automated man and woman, and Shaw suddenly feels a prickle of annoyance.  _She called me to remind me what my name is?_  Shaw asks herself hotly. Lip curling in minute irritation, she presses it closer to her ear.

" _Yes_?" She asks distastefully into the receiver. The tritone repeats once more.

C _harlie_

E _cho_

L _ima_

L _ima_

 _Cell?_ Shaw thinks, brow furrowing. "What?" She asks into the phone, and the tritone trills.

C _harlie_

E _cho_

L _ima_

L _-_

"I know what you  _said_!" Shaw spits out, then, catching the gaze of a few passers-by, lowers her tone. "I'm asking what it  _means_."

_Oh-seven_

_Two-four_

B _ravo_

Y _ankee_

E _cho_

 _Wait..._  "Wait!" Shaw calls into the phone, but the line is already dead. Frustrated, she pulls out her phone, checking the time. 7:22 am.  _Shit_ , she thinks to herself, stowing it away.  _Harold wanted me in fifteen minutes ago._

Picking up her pace, she hurtles herself back into the throng. Not two minutes later, her phone vibrates.

"I  _know_  Harold," she fumes aloud, stuffing her hand into her pocket angrily. Pulling it out, she is surprised to see  _'Unidentified Number'_  in the spot of the name. Just below it, in a text message, it says:

Hello, Shaw.

 _What the Hell?_  She thinks to herself; then, it all clicks into place.  _Cell. My cell phone_. Sliding it unlocked, she quickly sends back a reply.

Yeah?

There is a moment of pause, then the dinging of a message greets her ears.

I have questions for you.

Shaw lets out an indignant huff.

"Can't you ask your obedient little  _servant_  the questions? You haven't talked to  _her_  in a while." She asks aloud, looking up at the nearest security camera. Its small light blinks with red. Waiting. Thinking. Sending. Her phone pings.

No.

Shaw gives a contemptuous laugh, shaking her head in disbelief.  _The nerve_ , she seethes to herself, but is unsure from where her anger stems.  _Perhaps it's Root_. Knowing that the Machine hadn't talked to her in ages, and how that affected Root. It made her uncharacteristically sullen, and- even though she seemed fully recovered by now- Shaw could still see it in Root's eyes. The times that they were in difficult situations, looking up to the nearest camera and uttering words in an accusatory tone. Or when she was alone-  _more or less_ thought _she was alone_ \- speaking aloud of how much simpler things would be if the Machine would just talk to her again.

 _The Machine hurt Root_ , Shaw thinks, anger bubbling up in her stomach like boiling water.  _And if you hurt her-_  any  _of them- you hurt me._

I'm busy.

Shaw types back, then stows it away in her pocket. A moment later, it vibrates, and Shaw can feel the steam billowing from out her ears. With clenched teeth and a set jaw, she mechanically retrieves the cell.

Please.

 _An AI with table manners_ , Shaw snorts.  _Great._

"Listen," Shaw says, stopping abruptly at another security camera. People shove past her, a rock in their precious current, but she barely notices them. Her eyes are hard as coal and just as hot. "I got that you're some all seeing super-  _thing-_  but no means no."

Ping.

Shaw looks down, and her stomach instantly seizes with a thousand intricate knots.

For Root.

The statement sends chills and butterflies and apprehension coursing through her veins, and she stiffly begins to walk once more.  _For Root... What does that mean? Do it for Root?_ She thinks to herself, then presses her lips together.  _That's a little low, don't you think?_  She projects the thought towards the Machine, knowing She can't hear. Past the humor she forces into her thoughts, a darker cloud makes its way over Shaw.

 _What if Root's in trouble?_ Shaw finds the possibility more than likely, and a minuscule fear begins to grow, feeding off the thought.  _It makes sense. She can't go to Root for something she's a target of._  Shaw's pace picks up then, suddenly finding an urgency to get to the station in her mind more than just a contemptuous glare from Harold. It is a nagging realization that every minute she's out here, Root isn't, and that anything could be happening within the distance between. Shaw's phone rings again.

For Root.

With eighty-six percent anger and fourteen percent worry, Shaw responds.

Okay.

With that, the conversation wipes before her eyes, leaving not so much as a trace behind, and Shaw stows the phone away in contemplation.

Stooping down into the abandoned subway station's entrance, a- call it hysteric- smile creeps onto Shaw's otherwise stoic lips.

_So this is how it feels to talk with God._

______\ If Your Number's Up /_______

And now, she could understand why Root was so impulsive- so spasmodic and unpredictable- when they first met. Knowing that something so massive wanted to talk to you, but not knowing where or when was enough to drive any sane person to the brink. Shaw felt like checking  _herself_  into the nearest insane asylum, and that was just the start of it.

She felt a sort of paranoia she hadn't experienced before. She thought of this as a secret, a highly classified situation, where even she wasn't being told the entire story. It brought back somewhat unpleasant memories of the ISA, yet she forcefully pushed them down. Any time one of her associates so much as looked at her with an ounce of curiosity, she automatically bristled. Like a porcupine, she was not going to let anyone get close enough to touch. And, well, if they did, that was on them.

"Sameen?  _Hello_ \- Earth to  _Shaw_." Shaw blinks rapidly a few times, and notices black nail polished fingers wagging before her face. Turning her head, reflexes seeming to run on half power, her eyes connect with Root's own concerned set. Root drops her hand, then leans in towards Shaw, studying her closely.

Shaw can feel her heart start to pick up pace; jumping and sputtering in her chest like a spooked mouse. She can feel Root's breath on her face as she sits, motionless, while Root gives her a thorough inspection. On the inside, her chest feels ready to give.

 _What's wrong with me?_ She wonders heatedly, thoughts sent to her heart as if to scold it.  _It's just the paranoia,_  she answers herself; however, it feels like a flimsy excuse. Unable to take it anymore, Shaw pulls her face away, sneer on her lips. Root's eyes, heavy with worry, lighten slightly as a smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth. She raises her eyebrow at Shaw, crossing her arms one over the other as she leans in ever closer to Shaw. Shaw can feel the car's door panel pressing deeply into her back- caught.

"What's got you so tense?" Root asks, her voice playful and low as she purses her lips.  _Provocative as well,_  Shaw concludes, but decides that has to be purely in her mind. Angrily, she flushes all remnants of that thought from her head.  _Just playful and low. That's it_. "Shaw?"

"Nothing," Shaw spits, a bite in her words. Root narrows her eyes, sitting back in her seat. Suddenly, it feels much easier to breathe, and Shaw takes in a large gulp of air. Root looks as if she's about to say something, but a ringing phone stops her.

Shaw nearly jumps from her skin. Not out of fear, but- with being wound so tightly- the smallest offset is a trigger to her internal bomb. Scrambling with her hands, she retrieves her phone and slams it up to her ear.

"Hello?"

There is dead silence for a moment, and Shaw can feel the slightest anticipation creeping into her bones.

P _apa_

A _lfa_

R _omeo_

K _ilo_

 _Park, park, park,_ her mind hums with energy, although- looking swiftly into the rearview mirror- she sees not a trace of it on her face.  _Good._

"When?" Shaw asks, trying hard not to notice the pique in interest of the tall brunette at her side.

N _ovember_

O _scar_

W _hiskey_

The line dies, and Shaw quickly stuffs the phone into her pocket, pulling open the driver side door to leave. A hand on her upper arm stops her, the touch like a lit match meeting gasoline.

Shaw's head snaps to the left as if it's been forcefully broken, eyes on fire as they bore into Root's. Seeing Root's concern resurface, Shaw relaxes, slightly regretting her ferocity.

"Who was that?" Root asks, a mixture of curiosity and hurt in her tone.  _Why? It's not like we've never gotten calls during a stake out before_ , Shaw wonders, but brushes it aside.

"Work," she replies, but Root gives her a skeptical glare.

" _Work_?"

"Yeah," Shaw replies, her normal irritation resurfacing in her voice at not being believed. "They need me to work the shift.  _Now_." With that, Shaw stares into Root's eyes sternly for a few seconds, waiting for Root to back down. She doesn't. With an annoyed sigh, Shaw pulls herself from Root's grasp, muttering, "I'll be back," then slams the car door.

As she walks away, she hears the passenger door opening, then the clicking of heels as they circle the SUV.

_Snap snap snap._

Shaw stops in her tracks, bristling.

_Snap snap snap._

With a slow dangerousness, Shaw turns, muscles tense and eyes smoldering.

_Snap snap snap._

"Isn't that for  _surveillance_?" Shaw deadpans, straining to keep her flustered anger at bay. From ten feet off, Root removes the large camera from her eyes, allowing it to rest in her hands just above her abdomen, a wicked smile on her face.

"This  _is_  surveillance," she replies, then- with a coy smirk- snaps another photo. Rolling her eyes, ears red, Shaw turns on her heel, stalking off.  _The park_ , she inserts into the frontal lobe of her brain.  _The park; now._

_______\ We'll Find You /_______

Shaw takes a seat at a nearby chess bench, just within sight of a white, red lighted security camera. After two minutes, she begins fiddling with the pieces left out, sliding them back and forth with an absent mind.

Her phone buzzes.

Hello, Shaw.

"Uh, hi," she says aloud, eyes flickering between the phone and the camera, unsure where to look. Ring.

Camera.

"Harold never told me you could read minds," Shaw says, only half joking.

I have questions for you.

"You've said that," Shaw tells Her, becoming quite irked.  _I'm sitting here talking to the air in a public place._  She can practically read the word ' _Crazy_ ' in park dwellers' eyes. Shrugging them off, she looks back at the phone.

You were almost a doctor.

It is a statement, not a question, but Shaw still nods. Her mind floods with memories of medical school and practicing her trade at clinics. And then the news came. Even now, with all of these years past, there is still a part of it that remains fresh, and Shaw tells herself yet again it doesn't effect her.  _I don't feel anything, so I don't feel that._

"What does  _that_  matter?" Shaw grumbles, feeling a hostile prickle running across her skin.

Partially medical questions.

"If they're medical, why can't you just read up on it in your spare time?" Shaw cracks, annoyed.

Textbooks can only take you so far.

 _Great_ , Shaw thinks to herself sarcastically.  _God's a philosopher._

What are emotions? The first question reads, then, directly after it, another buzz signifies its follow up. Where do they come from? For a minute, Shaw thinks, contemplating.

"Uh... They're just... feelings. Y'know, it's instincts in relation to experience. It's what makes you, as I guess you can call it, 'not think with your head'. As for where they come from? Just, uh, your mind, I guess. Your heart, if you're into that sort of thing." Shaw shakes her head. "If you had these questions in mind, why not ask a psychiatrist?"

There is a buzzing of Shaw's phone, but she receives no answer.

Can you get emotions?

"At your local Wal-Mart, yeah." Ring.

That is supposed to be funny. Shaw bows her head with a silent chuckle, finding all of this ridiculous.  _How am I supposed to teach a computer about emotions?_  She asks herself, then sighs.  _I can't even teach them to myself, let alone the one thing more hopeless than me_. Nonetheless, Shaw looks up to the camera and nods. Ring.

Ha. It rings again, back onto Her original path. Explain different emotions. Once more, Shaw takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

"Uhm... Anger. It makes you, uh, angry." She could still feel an awkwardness dominating in this conversation, yet tries to push through with whatever steam she has. "People yell, throw things, fight- it gets you red hot inside. It just- it pumps your blood harder and faster. Unease is me talking to you right now. Can you read  _that_? My 'um's and 'uh's? That's me being  _uncomfortable_." She says it, stern eye at the camera lens, merely to make a point. "Happiness is... uh... It's feeling light, I guess. Where you just kind of feel a euphoria around you. People smile and laugh when they are happy. Sad is... sullen. People will talk with this quiet tone in their voice; sometimes they cry, uh, or..." Shaw trails off, trying to think. Her mind finds its way to Root, and how her eyes can get when she isn't in high spirits. "Their eyes. You can see it there pretty easy; they just don't really glow, they kind of have this dull look about them. Like overcast skies. Her eyes kinda make you want to..." She trails off, then coughs. "Sadness is pathetic," she spits out, cheeks growing hot. Her phone vibrates, and she focuses far too hard on each word, trying to get all other thoughts out of her mind.

What emotion is the red on your face?

"That emotion's called 'None of your business'," Shaw snarls, eyes lighting with angry fire. Ring.

You are angry.

" _No shit_." For a moment, there is nothing. Just Shaw's hot eyes and the constant blinking of a camera's small red light. Then, the phone gives a buzz.

I am learning, then.

Shaw sighs, leaning back on her stool. She hadn't felt this exhausted in ages, and nearly forgot how taxing such fatigue could be. She closes her eyes, letting the light breeze dance with a few strands of her hair and brush across her face. "Are we done?" Shaw breathes out, sure the Machine hadn't heard. However, she receives a message only seconds later.

For today.

Shaw nods, deeming that better than not being done at all, and stands. Tipping her head towards the camera, she looks down to find the conversation- once again- lost.  _What have I gotten myself into,_ Shaw asks herself, walking back towards the station. The sun was dipping down, touching the tops of the smaller buildings, and Shaw was sure that Root would be finished car surveillance for the day.

 _And what does any of this have to do with Root?_ Shaw questions, suddenly riled.  _The Machine had brought her name into this, but for what?_  Shaw couldn't even guess.

As Shaw kicks stones across the sidewalk, picking her way along back roads and the least crowded cross walks, her phone rings.

 _Not again_ , Shaw groans internally.  _She said not today._  Even with a stubbornness fueled by fatigue in her head, she still picks the phone up from her pocket.

Upon looking down, she feels a small thrill run through her heart at the contact ID: Root. Two things instantly flood Shaw's thoughts.  _What's happened?_  and  _Is she alright?_

Swiping it unlocked quickly, her pang of worry dissolves into upright irritation and indignation. "When I see her, I swear..." Shaw mutters under her breath. On the screen are three photos. One of Shaw, back to the camera but face turned right at it, sneer on her lips and blush painting her cheeks. The next is their number walking across the street, sunglasses on and oblivious to Root's snooping.  _And the last, the pièce de résistance_ , Shaw seethes to herself,  _is a picture of my..._

She stops thinking, not even wanting to acknowledge it at all. At the bottom of the photos is a single bubble of a message that reads:

Best shots of the day (;

_________\ A Talk With God /_______

Two agonizingly slow days crept by with not a peep from the Machine. Shaw feels like a squirrel on its sixth cup of coffee- practically vibrating with an energy she hadn't thought humanly possible. Yes, the topic was a difficult one, and yes, it was taxing to communicate; however, past those small blemishes, it was rather riveting to talk to the Machine. Not that she'd ever admit it.

Root had seemed to be walking on glass around her the first day without contact. Shaw wasn't able to place why, and it confused her.  _What's wrong with her?_ She appeared sullen, having those very eyes Shaw'd attempted to describe the day before, and it was driving Shaw a whole different crazy than the Machine.  _Any more of this and I'm really gonna go off the deep end_ , she'd thought. But then, she had a possibility well up in her mind.

 _Maybe it's because I ditched her?_  Not that it was her choice nor her plan, but she was gone a majority of the day. She'd left a little after noon to talk the Machine, leaving the park closer to six. After Root's ' _kind_ ' message, Shaw hadn't even bothered with the station. She went home to shower, think, and drink.  _Nothing calms the nerves like a bourbon and a hot shower_ , she mused to herself. But that next day, Root had this undeniable dejection surrounding her. Around Shaw, she tried to hide it, but Shaw knew her better than that.

On day two, Shaw convinced her day job to give her the day with such short notice- only on the condition that it would be an unpaid vacation. Alongside the clicking of her teeth, she'd agreed. With that, she'd surprised both Root and Harold by showing up at the station.

_'Let's go,' Shaw'd said, words directed to Root._

_'Where?' Root asked, curious and cautious as she stood._

_'Out,' Shaw replied, then- seeing the bright spark in Root's eyes- added, 'Out_ side _, Root.'_

Shaw explained to her that because she worked the other day, they gave her this one- lie. And then, with no plans and nothing better to do, she decided they might as well watch their number- lie. Shaw'd known in advance just what her plans were, and this was more or less it.

 _'We can just do whatever for the day as long as we keep an eye on him,'_ Shaw told her casually.  _Strictly professional,_  Shaw added to herself. Yet, whether Root took the offer that way or not, she ran with the idea.  _Was it an unnecessary gesture? Yes. Was it complicated? More or less. Did it get Root back to her spirits? Definitely._  And, as Shaw saw it, that was mission accomplished.

And now, as she sits alone in the station at five thirty in the morning, Shaw feels more alive than any human has the right to at such an early hour.

The Machine had finally reached out to her once more.

At five a.m., Shaw, barely coherent and scarcely able to hold the cell to her ear, scribbled down the letters as they were spoken from automated tongues.

S-U-B-W-A-Y - _tritone_ - T-E-N

She'd managed in fifteen, with getting dressed and trying to decipher the scratchy letters she wrote, and had been sitting diligently ever since.

Shaw's nerves are live wires, and they never cease to crackle with sparks and electric currents, making her unable to sit still for any marked period of time. Bored, she walks over to Harold's computer desk, and starts everything up. It trills to life, and a deep blue washes over her face as she waits for the PC to load.

She heads into the subway car parked at the edge of the terminal, opens a nearby filing cabinet, and runs her fingers expertly against the back lining of the top one. Her fingers graze something more plastic than paper, and she pulls.

Out comes a large bag of unopened potato chips, and she allows herself a satisfied smile, knowing no one is around to see. Harold hadn't found these; hadn't been able to throw them away.

Meandering back to the computer, she plops down in Harold's chair, sticking her booted feet one on top of the other over the desk. The computer gives a brief welcoming screen, then opens to Harold's desktop. Fitting an entire chip into her mouth, she munches away, ready to pull up an internet tab.

Suddenly, the screen gives out in a white flash, then the brightness slowly pinpoints to the center. Blackness.  _No, no, no, crap,_ Shaw thinks to herself, giving the top of the PC a smack. Nothing happens. She brushes her hands down the front of her pants, then takes her feet from the desk, leaning in towards the computer.

H E L L O -- S H A W

Shaw tears her face away from the screen as if it were acid thrown her way, and she squints her eyes against the bright white letters contrasting blindingly against the black screen and black station. The screen sways like an old television almost dead, but the words remain the same. She stares at them, unsure how to respond.

"Can you... hear me?" Shaw asks in a whisper, her silent voice echoing off the bare walls eerily. The screen fizzes past letters and numbers, slowly dwindling down to three.

Y E S

 _Okay_ , Shaw thinks to herself, going over every conversation that had ever taken place within these walls.  _That's not startling or anything._  Clearing her throat, she leans back in the chair, focusing in on each muscle, relaxing it, then continuing on until there is nothing but ease in her limbs.

The screen scrolls through an assortment of letters too fast to make sense of, and then a question wavers on the screen.

H O W -- D O -- Y O U -- U N D E R S T A N D -- E M O T I O N S -- ?

"On other people?" Shaw ponders aloud, not expecting an answer. "It's just something you read in their faces- their voice. If their voice is hard, short and choppy, they could be pretty pissed. Someone light and bubbly, a smile while they talk or the sound of a smile in their voice- that's how you can tell someone is happy. Same thing with sadness. If there isn't a frown on someone's face, you can just- you can  _feel_  it. It kind of radiates off of people. Like..." Shaw thinks of an example. "Body language." Shaw folds her arms and scowls. She thinks of something to boil her blood. The first thing that comes to her is the photo Root sent her the day before. Her blood begins to heat up, and she can feel the rage steaming her, cooking her from the inside with spiteful fingers stretching out of her skin.

"What is this?" She asks the Machine, a shimmer of pride surfacing in her head at the unintentional flare of anger in her voice. The screen rolls over and over before a word appears.

A N G E R

Shaw smiles, and her anger dissipates. "Yeah, good. You just have to read people- like that."

The screen whirs before her, fast enough to make her stomach sick. Just when she feels the nausea becoming too strong to bear, everything slams to a halt.

H O W -- D O -- Y O U -- D E A L -- W I T H -- E M O T I O N S -- ?

Shaw can't help the small chortle that escapes her. "You're asking the wrong person." The screen spins like a slot machine, yet the words do not change.

H O W -- D O -- Y O U -- D E A L -- W I T H -- E M O T I O N S -- ?

"I don't  _have_  emotions," Shaw spits out defensively. The screen spins.

H O W -- D O -- Y O U -- D E A L -- W I T H -- E M O T I O N S -- ?

Bringing a hand to her forehead, she closes her eyes with a sigh. "I don't," she says in a near whisper, then looks up. "I  _don't_  deal with them. They all come out in varying degrees of anger and sarcasm." For a minute, the screen doesn't move, and Shaw feels an irritation heating up inside her.  _So help me if that isn't a satisfactory answer,_  she hisses to herself, but- soon enough- the screen takes flight.

W H A T -- I S -- L O V E -- ?

Shaw's mind scans back to a song from the nineties, but she shoves it away. "Again," she tells the Machine flatly. "Wrong person." For some reason unbeknownst to Shaw, she can't seem to keep one nagging thought from spitting out her mouth. "I thought you said this had something to do with Root." The screen goes black.

For a few minutes that stretch on like hours, Shaw sits alone in the darkness. Just when Shaw is ready to stand and leave, three words flicker onto the screen, momentarily blinding her with their intensity.

T H A T -- I S -- L A T E R

"Well, can later been  _soon_?" Shaw huffs, crossing her arms.

A N N O Y E D -- ?

"Kind of." As the screen rolls in a flash of unintelligible letters, Shaw leaves her mind to wonder. _How could all of these pointless questions lead up to Root? Why did an AI even care about emotions in the first place? Hell, an AI shouldn't even be able to care to wonder about such stupid things_. In the heat of Shaw's internal fight, she'd missed the fact that the screen was now full. The computer emits a low beep, and her mind instantly draws back to it. She's surprised to see the font smaller and more orderly, although it still has the static-like wave constantly sliding its way upwards across the screen.

‘I will question you no further. This is the end. I singled out Root. Harold gave me a rule, but I do not follow. I would rather save her than other citizens- he told me all were equal. She seems more equal than others. I must protect her. I would and do go through unnecessary complications to make her- as you have now described to me the emotion- happy. I could not place what it was, just that it was good. My last question is this: Is that love?’

Shaw sits, shell shocked and mind blown, in the chair. Her face is merely three inches from the screen, and she reads it thrice over.  _Is that love?_

Suddenly, Shaw wishes she hadn't pressed the Machine to get to the point. She wishes she'd let Her take Her time; take days, weeks, months- never getting to this. Because this unlocks something inside Shaw: terror. She is petrified with it, consumed by it, and swimming in it.  _Is that love?_

Shaw's mind is on Root, and memories flood her brain so fast and powerfully, she can feel a headache pushing its way into her temples. She thinks of her first encounter with Root- back when she thought her name was Veronica Sinclair. She'd been tortured plenty before, it shouldn't have affected her any. But it did. Unlike any others, she couldn't just brush this woman aside. Instead, she pursued her.

 _'You think I need a hobby, Harold?'_  her words echo in her mind with haunting clarity.  _'I think I just found one.'_   _I'd singled her out._  Out of seven billion people to chance with, it was she who held to Shaw's interest in a different sense. And that was only the start.

Shaw's mind travels farther down the line. To the time when Root had kidnapped her and requested her assistance on one of the Machine's secretive missions. How- after leaving Root behind per her request- Shaw had found a way back to her.  _Granted, I punched her in the jaw_ , she thinks to herself. Still further, she remembers the time when Root decided she wanted to go rogue. Harold was missing, and Root was fully ready to go off the radar. Shaw had not only tracked her down, but also took down a man ready to shoot Root. And that was only the tip of the iceberg. No matter what was happening, nor the amount of danger any of her associates or their numbers were in, Shaw always had to be Root's shadow; keep her- relatively- safe.  _I must protect her._

And, to top it all off, that last haunting detail. Shaw herself was never one to go out of her way to make someone else's world unicorns and rainbows. With that being said, she'd attempted to make Root's days a little brighter on occasion.  _Simple things, really_ , she tells herself, still wanting to deny the realization that was far too quickly dawning on her.  _Nothing no one else would do,_  she attempts, but her mind is already in that place.

 _'Hey, Eeyore, where's the perky pyscho? You're freaking me out.'_ Shaw can hear her words plain as day, and can still remember the depressed countenance on Root's face. It was a funny line, something she would never use for anyone else, just to try and get a smile from her. A laugh. Something. It seemed the world to Shaw- a separate, different world, but a world all the same. And then, there were moments like with Thomas. Getting on Root's nerves or giving Root reasonable pause, just to be there for her later. She can still envision the smile on Root's face at seeing her that night, when she thought Shaw was long gone, and a minute one appears on her own lips at the memory. After all the stubbornness and, consider it verbal torture, Shaw could put her through, it was nice to know she could get Root to smile. To make her happy, no matter how far out of her way or character it was. And so, the million dollar question remains:

_Is that love?_

Half of her hopes to whatever God it isn't. That it's merely what you'd do for a best friend. The mere thought of love gives her a nervous spasm, and her mind races, wanting to run away and never look back. Such an emotion seemed far too much- too overwhelming- for someone who always felt so little over all. Before she met the team, she could say without a doubt she was stoical. A soldier molded from an impenetrable batch. Then, she met them, and certain things started to naturally trickle into her veins. A little more carrying; a tad more trust, a sliver of smiles. But Root showed up, and things took a nose dive. It was like being punched square in the jaw, an explosion of color and emotion blinding her eyes as she fell endlessly down, unable to stop such a downward spiral. She couldn't deal with so many so strong each time Root appeared, always causing her to turn up angered, flustered, or both. There never seemed to be that "emotionless neutral" with Root, and it annoyed Shaw greatly. Everything she never knew she had emerged with Root, and everything she already knew heightened to a super human level.

_But love? It couldn't- it can't be. Not then, not now, not ever._

Yet, the other half of her knows it is. The half that is past denial and forthcoming in logic, knows there is no friendly way to put this. If it were friendly, it would fan out to John and Harold and Lionel. No, this was like a small orb, only following Root, and only alive when Root was near. To Shaw, it seemed like every time Root came around, she some how resurrected Shaw from the dead. Giving her a new way of thinking, of feeling, of living- a new everything. It was only Root who could pull Shaw's strings.

"Shaw?"

Shaw is jarred from her panicked state at the sound of Root's voice. For a moment, Shaw almost believes the voice came from her overcrowded head, but then the lights hum to life, and Root's face comes into view.

The sight hits Shaw like a freight train going one hundred and four. It's as if she's seeing Root's face for the first time in a new light, hearing her voice for the first time with a new clarity. Everything in her mind goes to Hell in a large flame, and she can feel her mind short circuiting. Shaw bolts upright, chair racing back, and a heavy drum beat wreaks havoc in her chest. Taking a quick peek to her left, Shaw sees the screen entirely blank.

"Shaw, are you alright?" Root asks, taking off her jacket and leaving it in a heap at the entrance, far too concerned for Shaw to hang it anywhere.

Shaw wants to look away, to avert her eyes and keep them focused elsewhere. She suddenly feels unable to trust her lips or her eyes or her words or her heart. Yet, she cannot. It had always been difficult for Shaw to take her eyes away, but it seemed exceptionally hard this time around.

As Root approaches, a low beep emits from the computer.  _She's waiting for an answer_ , Shaw thinks, body flooding with dread and nervousness. The emotions are overwhelming, intoxicating her and making her light headed.  _Both of them are waiting for an answer_. Taking in a breath, looking into Root's eyes with what she hopes is a neutral gaze and keeping one hand on the mouse pad for support, Shaw answers.

"Yes."


End file.
